


Concrete Jungle Rapunzel

by uglywombat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dark!Bucky, Dubious Consent, F/M, Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, dark!bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-26 18:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20746643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglywombat/pseuds/uglywombat
Summary: You spend your days locked in a gilded cage, high above the concrete jungle, waiting for Bucky to return.





	Concrete Jungle Rapunzel

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry into @cake-writes 1k Followers Celebration on Tumblr. 
> 
> So, my initial plan had been to write a nice fluffy smutfest, however, thanks to VisenyaT and strawberrysoup I’ve got Dark!Bucky on the brain and this idea kinda morphed into a monster. Thank you both for the inspiration!
> 
> I wanted to play on the ideas of what lies behind the perfect, pretty, pastel photos. And in that lies my obsession with the darkness that people hide behind their public personas. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it! It is obnoxiously and self-indulgently long, so I would suggest you grab a drink and a snack. And thank you @cake-writes for the awesome challenge!

The concrete jungle glistened like specks of glass, flickers of red car brakes and yellow car lights breaking through the dark winter fashion and endless grey. You watched the top of umbrellas bustle up and down the street, people making their way home from a long day at work. 

The news anchors had spent a good portion of the week preparing the masses for the possibility of snow, however, New York was well and truly in the midst of a monsoon. And New Yorkers were not happy, as you could just make out as people pushed past each other in a hurry to get into the dry. 

You watched on in amusement as an umbrella upturned in a gust of wind, nearly knocking its owner onto their arse. 

The glass was cool under your touch, however, you knew that outside would be considerably chillier. The last time you had felt the gentle brush of fresh air against your skin had been in the sweltering summer before seeking refuge in Bucky’s air-conditioned loft, your last brush of freedom. 

You longed to feel the icy cold wind against your face, bundled in your thick pea coat and gloves as you move through the masses in an attempt to go home. The distinct New York smell of a melting pot of ethnic food, perfume, and car fumes was a distant, faint memory. The noise of angry mumbles, honking horns, and the rain teased your memories.

Watching the throng of passersby made you bone achingly nostalgic for the job you had taken for granted, the sluggish commute and pissed off customers. But most of all, you missed being useful, contributing to a project, having a purpose. A purpose other than cook or clean or allow those devilish hands to roam your body. 

Day after day, you would sit in this very spot on the window nook and watch people go by. You would imagine yourself in their shoes, playing out their conversations in your head. Meeting friends for lunch or drinks after an exhausting day at work. Rushing to see a show or running late to a meeting. 

The last show you had seen was regrettably Oklahoma. Steve had received free tickets and had given them to Bucky to surprise you with. You’d all but fallen asleep by the time Jud was meeting his maker, however, Bucky had made up the disastrous date by pulling you into the stall of the closest bar and making you see stars as you came around his thick cock.

You imagined the travelers below going home to a house full of family. Coming home to the arms of someone you love.

Family. Your brow furrowed grappling to remember the last time you had spoken to your parents. You weren’t particularly close, having moved to New York so long ago and visits home sparse and far between, however, right now you would have given anything to speak with them.

You lay your head against the window, your knees were drawn up against your chest as you huddled under the thick, woolen blanket, your feet toasty warm in your thigh high socks. The window was cool against your skin, the rain painting the glass as your fingers trailed over the speckles as they trailed down. 

The Jaws theme filled the loft, overshadowing the moody tunes of Lana del Ray and you blindly reached for your phone on the window nook behind you. 

** _Jet just landed. Will be home soon, doll x_ **

Your skin crawled and hummed as you threw the phone onto the seat cushion before you, resting your head on your knees. You could virtually feel the icy drops of water against your skin as you returned your gaze to the gathering liquid art. If this rain continued the view would be completely distorted by the drops of rain.

You probably had a good hour before he would return and as usual, expecting something on the table on his return, but your body ached with lethargy and confusion. 

Today had been a particularly bad day. You had woken to a cold, empty bed, your body burning with a heady need for his warm embrace. You couldn’t begin to put into words the desperation and guilt that consumed you as your fingers had delved between the sheets, resting on your clit, no his clit, before tearing your hand away, the tears consuming your wretched body. 

You had dragged your body around the loft cleaning every nook and cranny, top, lamp, rug, stupid piece of memorabilia you could find. As you did every day, the fear of boredom at an all too high. With boredom came the dark thoughts, the burning desire to escape. The fear of rejection. The anxiety built on a life locked away in his gilded cage.

You had little choice of entertainment in the locked loft. You had burned through the list of acceptable movies and TV shows on Netflix Bucky had prescribed. You still bore the scar on the swell of your hip from the spanking Bucky had rained on you with his vibranium hand when you had spitefully watched  _ Black Spot _ despite his prior warnings. 

You had devoured the library books he had brought you last week, the well-worn copy of  _ Memoirs of a Geisha _ resting on the coffee table.

You had always been a tidy person. Your apartment had always been neat and your desk organized. However, as you found your mind wandering into the dark, locked away from the world in his gilded cage, cleaning had become a refuge. It was the only ounce of control you could grasp in the loft. You could spend hours re-organizing cupboards or scrubbing the bathroom floor tiles on your hands and knees until your fingers were raw.

You drag your fatigued body away from the window, before spying the vintage bike adorning the wall at the top of the stairs from the loft entry. The pastel mint paint and white wheels clashed with the modern interior and exposed brick, serving as a cruel reminder of the world outside this loft. The prison you had called ‘home’ for two years. 

The bike had been a gift from your grandmother when you had first moved to New York for college. You had religiously used the bike, your only means of transport until Bucky had insisted you use a town car. The bike, now an eyesore, sits by the stairs leading to the front door to which you will never touch again. 

The pale-colored wicker basket on the front had once carried your tasty treats from the gourmet cheese shop you would often visit for dinner parties or a bottle of wine on drunken rides in Prospect Park when freedom had been taken for granted. In a time where you would often spend a Saturday going to the flower market, butchers, grocers and cheese shop to host your friends for a succulent dinner party. You’d spend hours dressing your small, intimate studio apartment (Bucky had called it ‘matchstick’) into a makeshift dining room, littering the counters with candles.

Before resentment can overshadow you, as it often does, you drag yourself into the kitchen to prepare dinner for Bucky. You turn up the volume of the music,  _ Hope Is A Dangerous Thing For A Woman Like Me  _ pulling a bitter chuckle from your mouth, as you placed potatoes and chicken into the chef’s oven. 

“Oh Lana, if only you knew,” you sighed bitterly, your eyes drifting to the photo collage sitting above the dining table Bucky had insisted you put together when you had first come to live in the loft. When he locked you in the loft and refused to let you leave two years ago.

You both looked so happy when your relationship had been simple and organic before Bucky had turned. You smiled sadly spying the photo of you both on the first night you had met at the cheap little Mexican bar near the old house he had shared with Steve in Brooklyn, you both giggling and drunk on cheap tequila and beer. 

You were both fresh-faced and smitten that night, your fingers were desperate to pull on his luscious dark man bun as you spent hours talking on the terrible cheap pastel coloured metal bar stools. 

The photo before you is a far cry from who you are today. Bucky looks youthful in his dark blue short-sleeved shirt, dotted with pink flamingos, the vibranium hand gripping a bottle of cheap Mexican beer that had been more like water than actual beer, his other hand wrapped tightly around your waist as he sat on the pastel salmon stool. His eyes sparkle against the flash, those sweet laugh lines and scrunched nose pulling at your heart. 

You are pressed against his chest, the dribble of nacho sauce vibrant against your white shirt, your lacy black bra just visible, your hands resting on his thick thighs sat on either side of your waist as you stood in front of him. You distinctly remember the overwhelming feeling of warmth as he wrapped his arms around you after the photo had been taken, pulling you into a heated kiss, Steve tutting under his breath after taking the photo. 

The muscles in your cheeks had ached for days following that night. You hadn’t been able to remember the last time you had smiled so much. 

And today, you could not remember the last time you had even smiled. 

That night you had gone home with him, only to wake up with the most incredible hangover and beard burn between your thighs. Setting in motion a chain of events that blew past you in such a flurry you never saw the gilded cage in the distance. 

Six glorious months of clandestine dating, trying to stay out of the public’s eye. Secret lunch dates (trysts) in his office, quiet drinks after work at hole-in-the-wall bars. Your favourite thing to do was cook for Bucky and try to satisfy his insatiable serum-induced appetite. You had spent months introducing him to new cuisines and palates. Your romps in the sack serving as the perfect calorie burner. 

As you trimmed the asparagus your eyes flitted over the collection of photos Bucky had gifted you three weeks into your new living arrangements, promising you a summer to remember in Provincial France to sweeten your raging anger. A sweet cottage in the heart the French alps, months spent gorging on cheese and wine. That promise made two years ago.

On the days when you felt your lowest, you would spend hours staring at those two sole photographs daydreaming perfect days wasted in the French sun, making love and eating your weight in macarons. He had promised. He had promised a lot of things. 

Asparagus prepped, you drag yourself out of the kitchen and into the bedroom you had spent night after night giving in to Bucky’s demands. The punishment was not worth the fight anymore. 

You fussed over the perfectly laid out quilt, fluffing the pillows before entering the walk-in wardrobe, the room Bucky had designed specifically for the gifts he had collected for you over the course of your relationship following an innocuous comment regarding your current bag crush. The architecturally designed room, with its individually lit shelves, housing the collection of designer handbags. 

The navy  _ 2.55 _ Chanel handbag Bucky had surprised you with over drinks three weeks into your relationship.  _ “You’ve had a rough week doll and I wanted to spoil you.” _

The leopard print Mulberry  _ Alexa _ bag he had hidden in your pantry after returning from a two-week mission, turning up at your door bloody and bruised. The sex in the shower had been intense that night. Your body beautifully painted with blue and black handprints the next morning as you got on your knees and took his thick cock in your mouth, the bag sat proudly at your side after discovering the treat hidden behind the granola. 

Proudly sat on the top shelf was the MCM  _ Visetos _ backpack he had given you when you received your promotion three weeks before you spent that fateful night in Bucky’s bed and never stepped foot out of the loft again. 

The newest addition, a black Kate Spade  _ Andi Canteen _ , sat untouched, pride and centre of the collection. Fresh that season, Bucky had dropped it onto the kitchen bench in front of you, the words failing him as he sulked into the bedroom. That particular fight had been terrible. You’d worn the bruises for a week following that particular attempt to escape. 

The shelves were lined with beautiful bags from Chloé, Burberry, Marc Jacobs, Kate Spade. Beautiful bags that served no purpose now with nowhere to go.

Despite your recent shower, you spritzed your clean hair and neck with the perfume Bucky had bought you for your birthday and dapped your lips with some lip gloss. Just the way Bucky liked. 

You returned to the kitchen immediately setting up a pan to heat up for the asparagus and moving to set the table. Bucky was a traditionalist, he liked to enjoy his supper at the dining table with you, talking about your days. Before Bucky, you had been more than happy to eat your dinner in front of the TV, catching up on your latest reality TV addiction. Now you would spend dinner pushing food around your plate, if you bothered to plate up for yourself, listening to Bucky talk about his latest escapades with Sam and Steve, before listing off the chores you had accomplished that day.

You were just plating up Bucky’s dinner when you heard the familiar pitched beep of the front door’s keypad, followed by the thud of the door closing and those heavy impending footfalls coming up the stairs. 

A shiver ran up your spine as you listened to the nearing steps, his boots heavy against the wood of the stairs. Your lip wobbled as you fought back your bubbling emotions, rushing back into the kitchen to start clearing away the dirty pans. You had to keep busy; keep the bubbling emotions at bay. 

But why did you not want him to see you weak? You were, in fact, weak, the fight dwindling from a raging fire to a mere ember, and he knew that. On one hand, your body screamed for him to hold you close against him, those safe, grounding hands hot against your skin. And on the other, your blood ran cold at the mere thought of those poisonous hands being near you. 

You froze as hot, plump lips met the exposed skin of your shoulder, large warm hands grazing along your bare thighs. 

Bucky presses his lips to your neck, relaxing into your sweet, citrusy scent. God, he’d thought of this all day. Finally returning home, returning to you. His body ached from the mammoth fight, his toffee skin peppered with bruises, the gash just below his ribs slowly healing itself. His only thought on the jet back to New York had been the feeling of your soft lips against his skin, the delicious meal you would prepare him. Home.

“Don’t cry, doll,” Bucky cooed, curling his arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest. 

Your body was pliant goo in his arms as he coaxed you over to the table, maneuvering you to sit beside each other. You watch Bucky tuck into the mountain of food on his plate, muttering praises in between mouth fulls, a warm hand resting on your thigh, still dressed in his dark navy combat suit. 

“Have you eaten, doll?” Your body sagged into your chair as he gave you a pointed look. “You know you have to eat, sweetheart. Have you had anything at all today?” You sheepishly do not meet his eyes, a deft hand caressing your cheek. “Doll, please don’t make me punish you again,” he begged, his voice drawn but dark. A thumb stroked away the falling tears from your cheeks as your fingers fussed Bucky’s jumper swamping your body. “You must eat every day, regardless of whether I am here or not. I need you fit and strong for me, doll. Do you understand?”

You bit back a sob, nodding your head, angry at yourself for giving in so easily to his commands. You had always felt so small and fragile with Bucky. Your first hunger strike had lasted four days before he has intervened and forced you to eat a bowl of oatmeal. Your stomach churned at the memory.

Bucky wrapped a solid arm around your waist before placing a soft kiss to your temple. The last thing he wanted to do was to have to punish you again. After all this time, he’d hoped by now you would be more acquiescent and less stubborn. He hated to see you suffer. “How about you share some of mine, okay?”

Defeated, you allow him to feed you until the plate is clear, his hand fussing over your hair and cheek as you ate slowly and deliberately. The sensation of his hands on your skin and hair was oddly relaxing. 

You missed the small smile on his lips as you lay your head against his shoulder, the cool metal of his hand caressing your exposed thigh. Goosebumps rained on your skin at the sensation, knowing all too well the power and danger the vibranium arm could pose.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now, sleepyhead,” he teased lightly. “Why don’t you do the dishes while I take a shower and we can watch a movie? You can pick tonight.”

Seven months ago you would have picked up the plate and smashed it to the ground, only to be bent over the table and ruthlessly spanked by the vibranium hand. 

But today… there was a change in the air. You had awoken that morning longing for his touch, devastated that he had left for the tower before you could see him. You had spent the day craving his praises as you scrubbed the loft, yearning for his constant touch. Instead of putting up a fight, you had allowed him to feed you from his plate.

It has built up over the preceding months, like mould on food. You found yourself, more often, drowning in a cloud of melancholy and longing. Those precious moments locked in Bucky’s embrace, his hot hand on your skin had brought you to a juncture of clarity. You had felt more at peace than you had in your entire life. 

You needed Bucky to survive.

Sulkily, you load the dishwasher with the plates and pans, taking your time scrubbing down the benches and table. You make your way through the living and dining rooms, and kitchen turning off the ceiling lights, turning on the lamps and leaving on the hanging pendant lights and bench lights. Just the way Bucky had taught you. 

The routine was familiar. The battling emotions were foreign and unsettling.

You could hear the faint sound of the shower running as you make your way to the bedroom. Bucky rarely took this long to shower; the mission had clearly taken a toll on him and your heart unintentionally pulled at the sudden thought of the possibility of him dying during a mission. 

No, you couldn’t think like that. 

When he left you confined to the loft as he went about his world-saving business, your mind would often warily wonder what would happen if he were to be ripped apart by the aliens and monsters he was charged with destroying to save the world. The irony of this gilded cage not lost on you.

Would the serum heal him if he were mortally wounded? If he were to actually fall in the line of duty, would anyone know you were here? Would you be free? 

How long could you survive on the food in the loft? Bucky shopped only once a week, ensuring the cupboards were full with the bare minimum lest you waste the day away gorging on snacks. Would you die alone, starved to death? 

Did anyone know you were locked up here? Would Steve or Sam come and take his place?

You did not have access to the internet. Bucky carried his mobile on him at all times or he would lock it in the safe in his office after he had eaten his evening meal. You were thirty-something stories high above the city, the windows 10 inches thick and bulletproof. The front door was finger-print controlled and the loft was the only residence on that floor.

There was absolutely no way on this earth that you could communicate with the outside world or escape. 

At the entrance to the bathroom, you came to a stop. Through the steam and condensation, your eyes came to rest on the deft hands scrubbing acutely sculpted abs, long, dark locks curtained over his focused face. 

You gasped as you spied the gash lining the bottom of his rib cage, his skin mottled with bruising. You swallowed back the tears, reminding yourself that the serum would heal him. He would be fine. And you would remain a captive. 

Your lip caught between your teeth as his hands brushed over his thick, semi-hard cock, soap cascading down his ripped, muscular body. You watched on as his hands' massage and scrub his long dark locks. 

Those hands that know you better than you know yourself. The safeguarding hand interlaced with yours as he used to walk you home from work when he was in town, before relentlessly teasing you on the couch for hours, pushing your self-preservation limits. Lingering fingers searching out comfort in your skin in the dark of night, as he battled through nightmares and demons. A hand softly coming to rest on your neck as you prepare breakfast, a languid kiss on the cheek from the morning-routine embattled soldier. 

He turned his back to you tilting his head up towards the ceiling as he let the steaming water roll through his hair, his fingers coaxing the bubbles free from the tangles. 

His back muscles ripple, taut and lean, as he rinses his hair. You’d loved his lithe, muscular frame the instant he had shed his clothes the first night you slept together. You had instantly felt powerless pinned beneath his sculpted body, and yet, he had been so utterly gentle and tender with you. That was of course until you had misbehaved. 

You moved away from the doorway as Bucky began to massage conditioner into his hair, your soul desperate to take in the fresh earthy and grounding scent of cedarwood, rosemary and juniper in his hair, those safe hands cleansing you, washing away the skirmish of emotions and sins. 

As you sat on the bed you had shared with Bucky for two and a half years a wave of war-weariness washing over you, your body sagging into the dark, soft quilt. Your fingers fussed over the woven, forest green quilt as you listened to Bucky hum quietly. The same hum he would sing with his head between your legs, singing until eventually, you would beg and plead for him to let you come, your fingers locked in his luscious dark locks. 

Your body buzzed with a surreal fuse of embarrassment and desire as the memory of Bucky eating you out in the cockpit of the Quinjet came flooding back. It was the first time you had met the rest of the Avenger’s team, save from Sam and Steve, and he had snuck you into the Quinjet for a tour, only to splay you on the control panel before pocketing your panties as his bounty. 

Of late, good memories, memories of when you had been happy with Bucky, have been washing over you fast and furiously. For a long time, they had laid forgotten, shrouded under a cloud of bitterness and rage. Sometimes, when he slowly fucked you into the mattress late at night, you could forget that you had been ripped away from the outside world and locked away in his gilded cage. 

The sound of the shower shutting off drew your attention to the bathroom and you could just see Bucky wringing the water from his hair one last time, the conditioner rinsed from his long locks. You felt a sudden surge of desperate longing wash through you, your hand literally shaking at the overwhelming feeling of isolation. 

With more energy than you had been able to coax all day, you stood up from the bed and made for the bathroom, stopping as your eyes came to lie on the mobile phone sitting on the pebble mid-century side table. The phone was sleek, modern and alluring, a gift from Steve when Bucky had moved back to New York to join The Avengers. Your fingers itched to touch the fine glass screen, the familiar background photo of you both coming to life as your finger tapped lightly against the screen. 

The same photo he had begged Steve to take as you tried and tested each beer at the pop-up brewery. He had held you so close on that bitterly cold February afternoon as you braved the outdoor bistro area, fighting over onion rings with Sam. His eyes were bright and sparkled with joy as he held you close, your lips firmly pressed against his cheek as you had drunkenly giggled as Steve took the photo. 

Your heart swelled at the memory of Bucky bringing you back to the loft that night, his hands and lips praising your body over and over again late into the night, before announcing he loved you over pancakes the next morning as you sat in his lap. You clearly remembered taking his face in your hands and kissing him silly, confessing your own feelings for him. 

It would be so easy to call the police. You could call your family. Your friends. Anyone. Your fingers hovered over the phone, fighting to placate your mounting anxiety. What would come of Bucky if you did call the police? Would anyone believe you? Was he testing you by leaving the phone out, a trial by temptation? He had never left his phone unattended.

You drew your hand away, the thought of Bucky rotting in prison sending your gut spiralling to the ground. The very thought of him leaving you, finally bored of your bad behaviour, whipped up those dark feelings of not being worthy of Bucky Barnes. 

Bucky sits on the stool in the bathroom, running the towel over his hair, the angry gash now a dull hum against his soft, honey skin. “I’ll be fine, doll,” he said noticing your eyes resting on his wound, “the alien that gave it to me is not, though.” Your lip wobbled slightly as you approached him, taking the towel from his hand before standing behind him. 

You were both silent, save from your intermittent sniffles, as you slowly combed his long locks with the detangling comb you had bought for him after you had found him borrowing yours. 

His locks were soft from the earthy conditioner as you slowly and methodically ease the comb through his locks, working the knots loose. You focused your attention on the light sheen of his hair, the lush scent of cedarwood calming. 

Once the comb runs smoothly through his hair, you pulled the expensive hair oil Bucky had bought you for your birthday out of the cupboard. The light citrusy scent was intoxicating as you let three drops sit in the palm of your hand before massaging the oil into his locks. 

You have always loved Bucky’s hair, openly jealous of his healthy, luscious locks. You could spend hours finding comfort running your fingers through his dark hair, burrowing into the citrusy scent as you lay side by side in bed or cuddled on the couch. 

“Thank you, doll, I always love when you play with my hair,” Bucky sighed huskily, his hand coming around to lightly grip your wrist and pull you down into his lap. He coaxed your arms around his neck before his hands cupped your cheeks. He sighed sadly as he watched your lip wobble and tears dawn, the weight of your perplexing need all too much. “Doll, please tell me what’s wrong. Tell me and I can make it better.”

You duck your head in shame, holding an impending sob at bay. 

“Please,” he begged, softly pressing his lips to your nose, his thumbs drawing the trail of tears from your cheeks.

“You weren’t there when I woke up,” you confessed, your voice shaking with the volcanic ash of your admission.

“I’m sorry, doll,” he sighed, resting his forehead against yours, “Steve called first thing and you looked so peaceful I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Is that the only thing that has you so sad?”

You shook your head, timid at the onslaught of vulnerability and your growing need of his touch. “I missed you,” you choked before sobbing against his chest. 

You had hoped the weight of fear and rejection would lift from your shoulders, however, your confession burnt on the tip of your tongue. You shouldn’t miss him. You shouldn’t spend your day needing the touch of the man who has held you captive in this loft for two years.

“Oh, doll,” he crooned, pressing his lips to yours, his heart swelling. Finally. Finally, you needed him. “It’s okay, I’m here now.” He wrapped his arms around your waist as he pulled you flush against his bare chest. “You have no idea how much I missed you, too.”

Your kiss is heated and heady, Bucky leading with excitement as his tongue exploded yours, the weak taste of cigarettes and coffee lingering on his tongue. His hands gripped your jaw as he dominated the kiss, your fingers holding onto his shoulder-length locks for good measure. 

“I love you.” The words fell from your lips before you could catch them, like a fish escaping from a fisherman’s net. Panic set in as ashen eyes locked on yours before those plump, pink lips spread into the warmest, kindest smile you could have dreamt. Your initial fear of rejection dissipates instantly. 

That same smile that had frequented your thoughts for days after you had met him. The smile that had coaxed you into dropping your panties in Steve’s bathroom during movie night so he could fuck you against Steve’s expensive new mirror, coating the surface with sweat and handprints. 

“I love you,” he declared before pulling you into another heated kiss. “I love you so damn much, doll.”

Like a well-rehearsed dance, Bucky gripped onto your thighs and gracefully stood up, your hands gripping onto his thick shoulders for dear life. His towel tumbled to the ground, forgotten as he maneuvered you both into the bedroom. 

As though you were made of glass, Bucky gently lowered you onto the bed, resting your head against the pillows as his lips descended to yours again. 

“You are so beautiful,” he breathlessly murmured as his fingers aptly brushed along your pussy folds before he slowly pushed a finger into your wet channel, your walls instantly fluttering against him, a soft mewl drawn from your lips. “I need you, doll. I’ve been thinking about you all day. Thinking about how much you needed me to take care of you, how pretty you looked last night as you came on my cock.”

You flushed, he was right. You did need him to take care of you.

He smirked against your lips as you moaned indecently, his fingers drawing in and out of your pussy at a steady tempo, the tip of his finger crazing against your clandestine jewel.

“I want you to ride me, doll, can you do that for me? Sit on my cock and fuck me?” 

You looked at him incredulously, searching his eyes for that flicker of trial or jest. Bucky always took the lead, even before you lost the outside world. He had always led your nightly dance between the sheets or whatever surface he deemed appropriate for the moment. Bucky was the conductor and composer of your symphony. 

“Would you like that, doll? To ride my cock?” Scorching, plump lips caught your pebbled nipple as his tongue lathes your sensitive nub. 

Ashen eyes pinned yours in their gaze as you clamped onto his fingers, your orgasm taking you by surprise. Grounding lips found yours as his fingers worked you through your high, always ready to catch as you fell over the precipice. His deep, molasses voice filling the fractured voids in your soul with words of comfort, hymn, and tenderness. 

Before you could regain your composure, Bucky pulled you onto his lap, protective hands encouraging you as his lips take command of yours. 

Safe. Protected. Loved. Home. The words ran over and over again in your head as you breathlessly lost yourself in his ashen eyes.

“Tell me, again,” he pleaded, his flesh hand carded in your hair. “I need to hear you say it.”

You were so caught up in the tranquil hold of his eyes you missed the flash of metal between your body’s, Bucky grabbing his cock and letting the head rest between your pussy lips. 

“I love you,” you sobbed, the tidal waves of emotions barreling over you, decimating what little defenses you had left.

“Oh doll, I love you, too,” he moaned, gripping your hair with his vibranium hand as you sank down onto his weighty cock. 

You shuddered as your walls stretched to accommodate him, the comforting flutter of nerves around him and a breathy mewl tickled his lips.

“You are perfect,” Bucky groaned as you began to draw yourself up and down his length. 

And in his mind you were. He could perfectly recall the first time he had seen you, perched on the cheap pastel bar stool as you laughed along with your friends. Exuding the warm, bubbly personality that instantly drew him to you. He knew that night, as you slept in his arms that you would spend the rest of your lives together. 

He had hoped that you would come to this realization on your own. But panic had set in when you drew back, work taking precedence, your time together becoming limited and his need for you only increasing. He had to take action. Keep you in his gilded cage. He could not take another moment alone, without you in this drab, soulless loft. 

At first, you had put up a hell of a fight, taking Bucky by surprise. He had hoped you would understand why he was taking these drastic measures. He’d loathed himself as he punished you for your failed and pathetic attempts at escape. He tried to make you love him and make you see how much he frisky, desperately needed you.

And now, as you make love on your bed, your fingers caressing his honeyed skin, his hands caging your face, Bucky can’t help but smile. You are finally his, your orgasms crashing together like a tidal wave against the banks. 

Bucky did not worry, the next morning as he watched you perched on the window nook watching New York come to life below you. 

As you watched people stroll to work, fighting through the monsoon rain, your thoughts were firmly focused on your day ahead and looking forward to tonight, to having Bucky back to yourself.

Your gaze was pulled from the world below as he pressed a small kiss to your cheek, his flesh hand stroking your hair. “I love you, doll, have a good day. I will bring you some more books home tonight and how about as a treat I will bring in some takeout.”

You smiled gently as you watched him retrieve his shoulder bag from the dining table, picking up the stack of library books you had devoured. 

As Bucky neared the top of the stairs, stopping at the vintage bike on the wall to readjust the strap on his shoulder, you called out, “Hey Buck, I love you.”

“I love you too.” Your body warmed at his warm, tender smile, those ashen eyes sparkling. 

Your gaze returned to the world below, wondering what books Bucky would bring you home from that library that day. 

  
  



End file.
